


counting down the minutes

by AShortWalkToDelinquency



Series: mpreg rewrites - season 1 [6]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s01e06 All Souls and Sadists, M/M, Malcolm Bright Has A Plan, Morning Sickness, Mpreg, Protective Gil Arroyo, Team Feels, Unexpected (but welcome) Pregnancy, Whump, injured Malcolm Bright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29154915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AShortWalkToDelinquency/pseuds/AShortWalkToDelinquency
Summary: “And why exactly does it need to be you that goes in?” Gil sighs, sounding resigned to the fact that Malcolm will be putting himself in danger.Again. “Wouldn’t JT be a better option. More of a threat, because of his stature?”Malcolm doesn’t miss the way JT puffs his chest out at the statement, clearly taking it as a compliment.“While JT is certainly more physically imposing,” Malcolm says, tilting his head towards the detective to hide the small smile that’s tugging at his lips, “I need to be able to read Jake’s reactions. His body language, his autonomic responses, even the words he chooses. It’s the only way to know for sure whether or not he’s a sadist.”
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Series: mpreg rewrites - season 1 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799755
Comments: 13
Kudos: 50





	counting down the minutes

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's been a while, but I promise I haven't forgotten about this series ❤
> 
> Thank you to everyone that's shown some love to our favourite pregnant boy!

"Tell me how will we know if this guy's a sadist?" Gil asks.

After all this time, Malcolm knows him well enough to recognize the hesitance in the question, like he's bracing himself for an answer that he's not going to like. 

Gil is _definitely_ going to hate his plan.

Malcolm takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. "I have an idea."

"Let me guess," JT arches an eyebrow and crosses his arms even tighter over the solid wall of his chest, looking supremely unimpressed before Malcolm's even had a chance to present his plan. "You're gonna be bait?"

"Not _exactly_ ," Malcolm says with a small shake of his head.

"That means yes," Dani says, cocking her head, daring him to say she's wrong.

"Look," Malcolm spreads his hands out in front of him, ignoring the comment itself, the smirk on JT's face, and the way Gil's lips and eyes tighten in displeasure. "With Jake's history of prior assaults, it shouldn't take much to set him off. Put him in a position where the desire to hurt me is too overpowering to ignore."

"No shit, bro. _I_ kind of want to hurt you," JT says quietly, but there's no sting behind the barb and even Gil lets it slide with no more than an eye roll. 

"Once he has me at his mercy, I'll be able to confirm if he's a sadist," Malcolm finishes and then waits for the objections he knows are coming his way.

It's funny. Not long ago, he would have assumed their hesitance to let him work the case had to do with their lack of faith in his abilities or their general dislike for him. But over the last few months, he’s started to realize that there’s something growing between them. Something akin to friendship. And he’s slowly beginning to recognize the worry for his safety behind the objections.

A little voice in the back of his head still occasionally reminds him that their acceptance of him likely has more to do with his relationship with Gil than a genuine fondness for Malcolm himself, but Gil has been helping him to tune out that voice and focus on the truth instead. 

They don’t want him to get hurt.

“And why exactly does it need to be you that goes in?” Gil sighs, sounding resigned to the fact that Malcolm will be putting himself in danger. _Again_. “Wouldn’t JT be a better option. More of a threat, because of his stature?”

Malcolm doesn’t miss the way JT puffs his chest out at the statement, clearly taking it as a compliment. 

“While JT is certainly more physically imposing,” Malcolm says, tilting his head towards the detective to hide the small smile that’s tugging at his lips, “I need to be able to read Jake’s reactions. His body language, his autonomic responses, even the words he chooses. It’s the only way to know for sure whether or not he’s a sadist.”

Dani seems to have Malcolm’s back immediately, which isn’t terribly surprising. She has a tendency to be the first on his side when it comes to his ability to do the job, and he’s more grateful for that than he can express. They've had some sort of connection since day one, and, though the journey towards friendship has been rocky at times, he truly thinks they're getting there.

“I don’t know, kid,” Gil says quietly, scrubbing a hand over his goatee.

“I can do this, Gil,” Malcolm assures him. It’s always a bit of a battle to determine if it’s Lieutenant Gil Arroyo that’s objecting to sending a consultant out into the field when he could be sending a trained NYPD detective instead, or if it’s just Gil, Malcolm’s boyfriend, that’s objecting to sending his lover into danger.

In this case, it doesn’t really make a difference. All three of them tend to forget that he was trained at Quantico and spent nearly a decade with the FBI. Not to mention the martial arts he used to practice to keep himself fit and protected. He can certainly handle one possible sadist, in a public space, with Gil there for back-up.

“Bright, can we talk?” Gil asks, clearly hesitant to voice his concerns in front of Dani and JT.

Obviously this objection is coming from Gil the boyfriend.

“It’s fine,” Malcolm says before Dani even has a chance to get to her feet. “Whatever it is, they can hear it, too.”

It might be a bit of manipulation on his part, but he thinks that if Gil is forced to air a personal objection in front of his team, he may just cave and give the green light instead.

His plan backfires immediately.

“You’re not operating at one hundred percent today,” Gil says simply. “You’ve been lightheaded and off-balance for days and I don’t think I’ve seen you eat more than a packet of soda crackers since yesterday.”

He...was not expecting that.

Aside from the fact that he thought he’d been hiding his flu-like symptoms better than he obviously was, he honestly didn’t think that Gil would bring it up in front of the team. He realizes his mistake as Gil looks to Dani and JT for confirmation.

Gil played him. He knew Malcolm would want Dani and JT to stay, so he made it sound like it was a private conversation, knowing that Malcolm would give his permission to speak about it in front of the others to force Gil's hand.

Tricky.

Malcolm can’t help but respect the game Gil is playing, even if Malcolm himself is coming out the loser.

He tilts his head in acknowledgement of a hand well played and Gil offers an apologetic smile and a half-hearted shrug. JT and Dani seem entirely oblivious to the brief exchange.

“He’s got a point.” Dani's nose crinkles up as she agrees with Gil’s assessment. “You’ve seemed kind of off the last few days. Maybe sending you in isn’t the best idea.”

"I’m fine,” Malcolm is quick to reply.

And he is. Mostly. Just a little queasy, for the most part. With the occasional bout of dizziness. But he chalks up the dizzy spells to the fact that, as Gil so helpfully pointed out, he’s been subsisting on a diet of soda crackers and ginger ale for the last four days.

It’s not like that’s terribly unusual, though. Like he’d told Edrisa on the first day they met, most food makes him sick. Sometimes he can handle eating, sometimes he can’t. This just happens to be a longer stretch of ‘can’t’ than he’s used to.

“Dude, I watched you nearly fall out of your cab this morning,” JT says, eying him speculatively. 

And that’s unfortunate, really, because he doesn’t think JT would have noticed that anything was off if he hadn’t happened to go out for a coffee right as Malcolm’s cab pulled up in front of the precinct.

“I tripped,” Malcolm lies smoothly. In all actuality, the cab ride left him motion sick in a way that he’s not at all used to and it took a moment to get his bearings as he stepped out of the car.

“Mmmhmm,” JT hums, disbelief clear in the tone.

“Honestly, I’m fine. And unless any of you have a degree in psychology to spot the markers of a sadist, it needs to be me that goes in.”

None of them look entirely convinced, so he plays his final card.

"What if I eat something first? To make sure I’m in tip-top form,” he offers, and already his stomach begins to roll at the thought of food. He's not entirely sure he'll be able to keep anything down, but he's certainly willing to try if it means they can move on with their investigation.

Malcolm holds his breath as the room falls silent, a weighted stillness filling the space as three sets of eyes land on Gil, waiting for the final confirmation. 

“At least half a sandwich,” Gil gives in begrudgingly. “And a full bottle of water.”

“Soup from Cisco’s and a bottle of ginger ale,” Malcolm counters. The thought of eating a sandwich is almost enough to make him vomit outright.

“Fine." Gil pushes to his feet, seeming none too happy about agreeing to any of it. “Chicken soup?” he asks, because even if Gil is exasperated with Malcolm's antics, he’s still going to go and get him lunch when he’s not feeling well. There’s too much love there for anything less.

“Please,” Malcolm smiles softly.

Working together while dating has been a challenge at times, but they’re managing it just fine, Malcolm thinks to himself as Gil and JT walk out the door, Dani calling her own order out after them. Apparently they’re going to have a team lunch before splitting up to follow their separate leads. 

Malcolm pulls out a seat across from Dani and lowers himself into it, trying not to broadcast just how good it feels to sit. He also takes the opportunity to pop the button on his jacket, wondering how he possibly managed to put on weight when he hasn't eaten in days.

“You sure about this, Bright?” Dani asks, leaning forward and clasping her hands together on the table. Her concern would be apparent even if he wasn’t a profiler. "You’re looking a little peaky.”

Malcolm offers his trademark self-deprecating smile as he leans back in his chair and crosses his right leg over his left.

“My meds don’t always agree with my stomach,” he says quietly. It’s not something he usually admits, but Dani somehow feels safe. “It just normally doesn’t last this long when things get rough.”

“I’m sorry,” she says sympathetically. He can tell she means it, too. "But maybe it would be best to just take the day off? Go lay down, or maybe see a doctor?”

He appreciates the concern. He truly does. But he has a job to do and an anxious stomach isn’t going to stop him from doing it.

"I'll be fine," he says again, a genuine smile pulling at his lips as he soaks up the feeling of someone caring about his well-being (outside of Gil, of course). "Honestly, I think a bit of soup will be just what the doctor ordered."

That last part is more blind hope than anything. He knows if he can't keep the soup down that he'll be off the case entirely. Gil won't hesitate to bench him for this one if he can't get his body under control.

"Okay," Dani says simply.

This whole _trust_ thing is still new to him and keeps taking him by surprise. It's...nice.

Gil and JT are back in no time (Cisco's, a little hole-in-the-wall, take-out only restaurant, is just down the street), and they hand out the food quickly.

"Eat fast," Gil says, as he unwraps his own sandwich, "We need to move."

Gil, Dani, and JT are all used to inhaling their lunches, a side effect of working Major Crimes and being consistently on the go. Malcolm, on the other hand, is used to eating slowly. If he eats at all. He's managed a whopping four spoonfuls of soup before the others are ready to hit the road.

"Powell, JT, I want you to tail Crystal Parker," Gil says as the two detectives toss their food wrappers into the garbage. At Malcolm's arched eyebrow, he adds, "I don't want to put all of our eggs in one basket with Jake, and Crystal is definitely hiding something."

"Sure thing, boss," Dani agrees easily, heading to the door, but JT hesitates next to the conference room table.

"Is there a problem?" Gil's eyebrows draw in close as he looks up to where JT is standing, unmoving.

"I was kinda hoping to watch Bright get his ass kicked," JT grins, his gaze landing on Malcolm, profiling the profiler, making sure he knows that JT is just teasing.

Malcolm smiles and ducks his head, loosing a breathy chuckle at the good-natured ribbing. It's oddly refreshing to have someone in his life that's capable of a teasing banter that's not meant to be hurtful. It's the first time he's ever experienced it. 

He likes it.

"JT, don't you have a job to do?" Gil's voice is stern, but there's a twinkle in his eye that belies the implied order.

"Yup." JT turns to the door but looks back to Malcolm one last time before he leaves. "Don't do anything stupid." It's JT's version of 'be careful' and Malcolm gratefully accepts it for what it is, offering a small nod in return before JT follows Dani out of the room.

"How you doing, kid?" Gil's voice turns soft now that it's just the two of them. They both try their hardest to keep things professional at the precinct, but sometimes it's nice to let that filter slip just a little. To show some of the love they feel for one another.

"I'm fine," Malcolm says, reaching over to give Gil's hand a squeeze, one that Gil returns immediately. 

"You sure about that?" Gil raises an eyebrow as he looks at the nearly full soup container, quite clearly debating on sidelining Malcolm for the time being.

"It's hot," Malcolm insists. Which is true. Also true is the fact that his body is rebelling at the sudden rush of food to his otherwise empty stomach. "How about I eat in the car?"

"Fine," Gil says, knowing they need to get moving. "But if that soup isn't half gone by the time we get there, I'm flashing a badge and just taking him in for questioning. We'll skip the whole mind-games thing."

"Deal," Malcolm agrees easily. "Let me just pour this into a to-go mug."

If some of the broth winds up spilling down the sink in the kitchen as he pours it into one of the disposable cups next to the coffee machine, no one is there to see it but himself.

He does make an honest effort of drinking the soup on the way there, though. Now that he's no longer trying to keep down the noodles and bits of chicken, it's easier to stomach. He might actually even feel a little better. So as they pull up in front of Jake's gym, he happily shows Gil his progress, popping off the lid of his cup and angling it towards Gil, unsure if he's trying to assuage his boss or lover at this point.

Gil huffs a weary sigh, but has obviously already decided to proceed with Malcolm’s plan.

"Okay, kid," he says seriously, turning in his seat to face Malcolm. "No stupid risks. Get the confirmation you need and get out. I'll be nearby if things get out of hand, but if you need me, you call out. Understood?"

"Got it," Malcolm smiles, snapping his lid back on and placing the soup in the cup holder between them before leaning in to kiss Gil softly on the lips. "I'll be fine. I promise."

All traces of his earlier nausea and light-headedness seem to disappear as he walks into the gym, though he's honestly not sure if it's because of the soup or the adrenaline that starts to pump through his veins as he aims to confront a possible killer. 

The girl at the front desk is more than happy to issue him a visitor's pass for the day, helpfully informing him that Jake is in and available for a personal Krav Maga session for an introductory fee. He pays in cash and is given a quick tour of the facility before being led to the main gym, assured that Jake will be with him shortly.

Malcolm looks around the space, taking in the exercise equipment that lines the concrete walls, leaving the entire center of the room wide open for one-on-one combat, or perhaps even the group classes in the various martial arts touted in their flyer.

It actually reminds him a lot of the gym he'd taken jiu-jitsu classes at in DC, and he wonders if he should sign up for something here in New York. Yoga helps to keep his mind on track, but something a little more physical might just help release some of the tension he's always carrying.

He's pulled from his thoughts as the man from the flyer walks into the room, his presence commanding attention, and Malcolm immediately feels as though this is going to be even easier than he'd originally thought. One look at Jake and Malcolm knows exactly the type of person that would get under his skin. Someone with a streak of arrogance beneath a cool and indifferent demeanour. Someone that acts as though they're above everything Jake and his gym stand for. 

Today's role, Malcolm decides, will be equal parts charming and condescending. Perhaps with a dash of apathy and disdain, just for a little extra flavour.

"Welcome to the world of Krav Maga, Mr. Bright. How'd you hear about us?" Jake asks, politely enough. The man clearly has enough control over himself to run a business where he has to interact with patrons everyday, so Malcolm dials up the aloofness as he answers to really start things off on the wrong foot.

"Saw a flier," he says dismissively, allowing his gaze to wander around the room, very obviously judging everything he sees. "I like your motto: 'We defend to the end.'" He does his best to make it sound slightly cynical, like he's laughing about it through the compliment.

"It's not a motto," Jake says through clenched teeth. Malcolm's disrespect is already getting under his skin and Malcolm can't help but smile at just how simple the man is making this. "It's a philosophy for survival." 

"Cool. Got it," Malcolm brushes him off dismissively, noting the flicker of fire in Jake's eye at the tone. "I've done, uh, kung fu, jiu-jitsu. How do the belts work in Grav Macau?"

It might be a little over the top, but Malcolm is enjoying himself far too much to care. He hasn't felt this good in days! Verbally sparring with a likely sadist is not what he'd expected to be doing when he woke up that morning, but now that he is, there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

" _Krav Maga_ ," Jake corrects him, his agitation becoming harder and harder to conceal, "isn't a sport. The concept is to inflict so much pain and damage that your opponent can't hurt you ever again."

"Isn't that a little extreme?" Malcolm asks, partly to piss him off, partly because he's genuinely interested in an answer. Self defense and mastering one's body is one thing. Inflicting incalculable pain on another human being is something else entirely. He can't help but think that his father would enjoy it, if Claremont ever offered it as an option for recreational time.

He shakes that thought away as quickly as it floated, unbidden, into his mind.

"Life is extreme" Jake's entirely unoriginal and slightly disappointing answer comes as he walks over to Malcolm, getting far closer than is socially acceptable. It's a warning. Perhaps even a threat. "Guys out there want what you have; your money, your house. They'll take them, unless you're willing—"

"To hurt them?" Malcolm asks, studying him for a reaction to the statement while he switches to breathing through his mouth. Jake's breath smells like stale coffee and Malcolm's stomach heaves at the scent. He hasn't been able to stomach coffee in weeks, even the aroma of it causing a wave of nausea to overtake him.

Jake's eyes light up at Malcolm's words, but he merely chuckles and says, "Let me demonstrate. Show me some of that ju-jitsu. Knock me down." He backs away (taking the repulsive smell of coffee with him) and drops into a fighting stance, bringing his hands up to guard his face. Even behind the barrier of his loose fists, though, Malcolm can see that Jake is just barely restraining himself.

He wants to _hurt_ Malcolm, and he's going to have a difficult time controlling himself. 

Malcolm clears his throat and edges over, bouncing on his toes slightly to find his balance before making his move. When he finally throws a punch, he aims a little wide and holds himself back, just enough to appear weak, inexperienced. Easy prey.

It takes nothing at all for Jake to catch Malcolm's arm with one hand and slam his forearm down on the crease of Malcolm's elbow with his other, knocking him to the mats while keeping a firm hold on Malcolm's arm. He's only kept from falling all the way forward by Jake's unrelenting hold.

"See that? Got your arm in a submission hold," Jake sneers as he jerks Malcolm fully up to his knees, wrenching his arm far enough back to be merely uncomfortable if he stays still, but send a jolt of pain through him if he tries to pull away. Still grasping Malcolm's forearm, Jake's left hand moves to wrap around Malcolm's wrist, applying enough pressure that Malcolm's heart falters as he thinks that Jake may actually snap his bones. 

And of course Malcolm's stomach chooses that moment to rebel, the small amount of soup he'd managed to eat sloshing around uncomfortably in his belly as a burning heat rises up his esophagus. The pain in his arm actually becomes an afterthought for a moment as he tries to breathe through the nausea that's about to send his stomach spilling onto the floor.

He swallows it down and breathes through it, though, sucking measured doses of oxygen in through his nose, holding it for just a moment, and then blowing them out through his mouth. It takes several cycled breaths before Malcolm is able to formulate a response, and even then, his reply is terse, nervous about the possibility of losing his lunch.

"Got it," Malcolm grunts, refusing to show any weakness. It's not like he's even holding back for Jake (frankly, letting the man catch a glimpse of the pain he's causing would only further Malcolm’s agenda; he still needs more proof to confirm his suspicions about Jake). No, he needs to keep it together for Gil, knowing the Lieutenant Arroyo is nearby, watching, and will come out guns blazing to put an end to this if he deems it necessary.

"See, Krav Maga relies on one thing," Jake says, pressing down just a little bit harder on Malcolm's wrist. "Maximum aggression."

Jake finally releases his grip, but then throws Malcolm forward with all his considerable strength, sending him crashing face first into the mat below. There's a hot twinge in Malcolm's shoulder when Jake doesn't release his arm fast enough, jerking the joint in its socket before he finally releases him entirely and steps back, staring down at Malcolm with a contemptuous smile tugging at his lips.

"Maybe this isn't your thing, Mr. Bright," Jake says, condescending in a way that pisses Malcolm off, just a little. His next words, spoken with just a hint of sarcasm, leave Malcolm more determined than ever to finish what he's started. "We do have a nice kung fu class on Tuesdays."

"Ah, that's cool," Malcolm says, pushing to his knees and running his hands through his hair to get it off his face, ignoring the way his shoulder and wrist throb at the movement. "I'm fine. What else you got?" 

He gets to his feet and pulls off his workout jacket, tossing it to the side and tugging up the sleeves of his t-shirt, readying himself for round two.

"All right, then. I'm gonna come at you this time," Jake says.

And he does.

Only this time, Malcolm blocks the shot that Jake takes, knocking his arm to the side with his left hand while slamming the heel of his right hand into Jake's nose. _Hard_.

"What the hell?!" Jake shouts, grasping at his face as he stumbles away from Malcolm, looking like he's ready to absolutely annihilate Malcolm for the move.

"Sorry," Malcolm says glibly, throwing his arms out and gesturing expansively, "I-I thought we were going for maximum aggression."

And then he does the one thing that's practically guaranteed to make Jake attack.

He turns his back.

Jake moves like lightning, running up behind him and using the momentum to kick him aggressively in the back of the knee, sending him sprawling on the floor once again. "You want to see real aggression?" Jake spits, rage dripping from his words. This time, though, he jerks Malcolm's arm back and drops down to kneel hard on his shoulder, pinning him to the ground with no mercy. This time, Malcolm hears a disconcerting pop as the joint is overtaxed and separates from the socket. "Do you submit?"

When Malcolm makes no move to answer (if the nausea was bad before, the feeling of his shoulder dislocating amplifies it a hundredfold. He knows if he opens his mouth now, it won't be words that spill out), Jake throws his arm to the mat but immediately leans down, wrapping a forearm around Malcolm's neck and yanking him a foot or two off the mat, forcing his back to arch painfully as he scrambles to support himself with his good arm.

"Do you?!" Jake shouts.

And this, _this_ is what Malcolm had been waiting for. The way Jake's pupils dilate, the hitch in his breath, the feel of his pulse — racing so damn fast where it's pressed up against the side of Malcolm's neck — even the growing hardness that's pressing into Malcolm's back. It all confirms what Malcolm had been expecting all along.

The man is a sadist.

Malcolm can't help the smile that splits his face, the laugh that bubbles up from the depths of his chest. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, dulling the ache in his shoulder, and suddenly all that matters is that he was right, that he was able to force Jake to show his true colours.

Oddly, Malcolm's glee is what gets Jake to pull away, scrambling back as confusion and anger roll from him in waves. "What the hell? You some kind of freak?"

Jake is clearly pissed about Malcolm ruining his fun. He didn't get the opportunity to hurt him nearly as much as he'd wanted.

A groan slips from Malcolm's lips as he rolls over and pushes himself up with his good arm, sitting in the middle of the mat while he waits for Gil to make his presence known. His right arm hangs limp in front of him, cradled in his lap as he looks up to Jake, this time biting back any visible markers of pain because he doesn't want to give Jake the satisfaction of knowing he's injured him.

"Well, Jung would have called me a masochist. I'm not a fan," Malcolm quips. He considers getting up, pushing to his feet so Jake no longer has the advantage over him, but his shoulder is beginning to ache something fierce as the adrenaline fades away, and he doesn't think he can move without making it painfully obvious that Jake managed to inflict some serious damage. So he sits on the mat and continues to talk as Gil walks into the room, eyeing Malcolm warily as he silently stalks behind Jake. "He would have loved you. An old-fashioned sadist."

"Who are you?" Jake asks, confusion tempering his aggression. 

"Malcolm Bright." Malcolm smiles, but even he can tell it's sitting brittle and unnaturally on his face. "A profiler. And he's a cop."

Jake glances over his shoulder as Malcolm nods towards Gil, his obvious uncertainty running even deeper as he takes in the presence of another person in a room that he'd clearly thought was unoccupied, outside of the two of them.

"Hi, Jake," Gil says calmly, hitching up the edge of his sweater to flash his badge. Lieutenant Gil Arroyo appears the epitome of composed, but even through the growing ache in his shoulder, and even though they're half a room apart, Malcolm can sense the concern beneath Gil's — _his_ Gil's — placid demeanour. "Let's talk."

Gil waves in the uniformed officers that accompanied them, handing Jake off and providing instructions before turning his attention to Malcolm. By the time he walks over to where Malcolm is still sitting on the mats, unmoving, they're the only two in the room.

"How bad?" Gil asks, dropping to his knees in front of Malcolm and cupping his face with both hands, a gentle touch that not only conveys his worries, but also forces Malcolm to look him in the eye. It's a clear indicator that he's not willing to accept any half-truths or prevarications.

"I'll be fine," Malcolm assures him, but when Gil just continues to stare at him, he sighs and adds, "He may have dislocated my shoulder."

Gil damn near growls as his muscles visibly tense, but his grip on Malcolm's face somehow becomes impossibly softer.

"Ambulance?" Gil asks, though it's clear he already knows the answer.

Malcolm just smiles and shakes his head lightly, having no intention of dislodging Gil's warm hands from his face.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Gil sighs. They're close enough like this that Gil hardly even needs to move to press their lips together, a gentle kiss to match his gentle touch. It's a caress, a comfort, a promise to stay by his side, and Malcolm melts into it immediately. Somehow, his shoulder hurts just a little bit less. Malcolm loses track of time until Gil eases back, dropping one last peck to Malcolm's lips before he says, "Come on, city boy. Let's get you to the doctor."

Malcolm harrumphs, Gil chuckles, and they work together to get him to his feet without jostling his arm too much. Soon enough, they're back in the car and Gil is commandeering Malcolm's cell phone from his jacket pocket while Malcolm struggles with the seat belt that he insisted he could manage himself.

"Hey," Malcolm calls, fumbling the buckle and losing it to the pull of the belt as it retracts.

"Yeah. I'm not sorry," Gil murmurs, thumbing Malcolm's password into the phone and quickly scrolling through the contacts as soon as it's unlocked. Malcolm watches as he stops on his doctor's number and presses the call button.

"Gil, this really isn't necessary," Malcolm tries, despite knowing damn well that he's going to need his shoulder popped back in place. He just really, really hates going to the doctor.

Unsurprisingly, Gil ignores him entirely. In a matter of minutes, they have an appointment set up, Malcolm is buckled in (and only a quick kiss from Gil is able to erase the scowl from his face as Gil leans across to buckle him up when it becomes clear he can't actually manage it himself), and they're driving across town to see Malcolm's doctor.

They're shown into an exam room as soon as they walk through the door, a nurse rising to greet them and lead them down the hall.

"Please take a seat," she says kindly, gesturing to the chairs on the far side of the room. "Doctor McLaren will be with you in just a moment."

"Thank you," Gil says, his attention never shifting from Malcolm as they slowly make their way into the room, Gil's hand pressed warm to the middle of his back, guiding, supporting, loving. He gets Malcolm settled in one of the chairs before angling the other to face him a little better, the metal legs scraping across the floor with a dull scratch until it's where he wants it. Only then does he sit, facing Malcolm, wrapping a hand around Malcolm's free hand, now that he's no longer cradling his arm. "How's the pain?"

"I've had worse," Malcolm says. His tenure with the FBI had included several injuries that Gil never even heard about (and Malcolm intends to keep it that way), so this doesn't even rank anywhere near his top ten list of mishaps. "Honestly, Gil, I probably could've popped it back in myself. There are YouTube tutorials for everything these days. You can find how-to videos for pretty much any first aid you may need, from removing bullets to stitching wounds.”

Gil doesn’t even dignify that with a response.

They sit quietly for several minutes, until Malcolm huffs and breaks the silence. "You know, you won't let me take you to the more exclusive restaurants in town, but you don't seem to have any issue with using the Milton name and money to get me an emergency appointment with one of the most prestigious doctors in the city."

It might be a little unfair, but Malcolm _really_ hates going to the doctor, and isn't exactly a big fan of being fussed over, either. And he honestly just wants to get back to work so he can be there for Jake's interrogation.

"You’re adorable when you pout,” Gil says, clearly striving to repress the smile that’s trying to break free.

"I’m not pouting,” Malcolm insists, standing his ground despite the fact that he can feel the pout that’s most definitely sitting on his face.

“Mmhmm,” Gil agrees and leans in, softly kissing the left corner of his mouth and then the right. He’s about to lean in for a third when there’s a light rap at the door and the doctor — a man in his early forties that looks like he belongs on the latest medical drama — strides in. Gil pulls back and looks up at the doctor expectantly.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bright,” the doctor smiles, “It’s been a while.”

Not long enough, in Malcolm's opinion. It has nothing to do with the man himself; he’s pleasant and understanding and one of the best doctors in the state. But Malcolm doesn’t exactly have the best associations with doctors and it’s difficult to move past that. Every medical explanation he receives takes him back to spending time with Martin in his hobby room, learning about the skeletal, muscular, and nervous systems in the body as Martin groomed him to follow in his footsteps.

(Malcolm still worries, constantly, about which footsteps Martin was hoping he'd follow in with that detailed knowledge of the human body.)

All that time that he spent with his father, so pleased to be at his side and warrant his time and attention, all of those memories are tainted by everything that happened after, and every interaction with a doctor now just dredges up memories best left forgotten.

"I hear you may have dislocated your shoulder. May I take a look?" Doctor McLaren asks, waiting for Malcolm's hesitant nod before making his way over and beginning his examination. Removing Malcolm's shirt is a cumbersome and uncomfortable process, but it's done quickly and Doctor McLaren doesn't need long to determine a course of treatment. "You're right, it is dislocated. I'd like to try a closed reduction to maneuver it back into place. I'm going to give you a muscle relaxant and then come back in about fifteen minutes to set it, alright?"

"Sounds peachy," Malcolm smiles blandly.

"Uh, doc, he's also been feeling a little under the weather lately. Nauseous, light-headed," Gil pipes up as the doctor steps away and Malcolm shoots him a look of utter betrayal that Gil wholeheartedly brushes off.

Malcolm may love that man more than anything, but sometimes, he can be a right pain in the ass.

Suddenly, instead of just taking the muscle relaxant and waiting in peace for it to kick in, his ears and throat are being checked, his temperature and blood pressure are recorded, blood and urine samples are procured, and Malcolm isn't pleased about a single moment of it.

However, when the doctor finally returns his attention to Malcolm's arm, lifting and maneuvering it in a way that makes the pain flare and spread enough that he has to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out, until suddenly the pain disappears entirely as the joint is popped back in place, Malcolm thinks Doctor McLaren may just be his new favourite person. 

"Better?" The doctor chuckles at Malcolm's sudden sigh of relief. "Alright. Stay put while I go check your tests and grab a sling. And yes," Doctor McLaren cuts Malcolm off as he opens his mouth to protest, "A sling is necessary."

"Is it really better?" Gil asks, taking Malcolm's hand once again as the doctor leaves the room.

"Yeah, just a dull ache now. Like when you sleep funny," Malcolm says honestly. Strangely, he's not sure he even realized just how much pain he was in until it was gone.

"What do you know about sleeping?" Gil teases lightly, his entire bearing changing, relaxing, now that Malcolm's pain is gone.

"Oh, look who's funny all of a sudden." Malcolm releases Gil's hand to lightly swat as his chest, but the grin on his face is a dead giveaway to his true feelings about Gil's sudden lightness. 

It's not long at all before the doctor returns, sling and clipboard in hand as he walks into the room. "Mr. Bright," Doctor McLaren says slowly, his eyes flitting along the test results in front of him. "Are you aware you're pregnant?"

The world fades away for half a second before his pulse begins to rush and woosh in his ears and Malcolm finds himself leaning forward, bending nearly in half, stopped only by a growing ache in his shoulder at the movement.

It's not possible. They've been careful. _Frustratingly careful_.

And yet…

"Bright? Kid, talk to me." Gil rubs slow circles between his shoulder blades, but it takes several minutes for Malcolm to actually notice. When he does finally become aware of his surroundings and manages to push himself up, it's Gil, of course, that draws his attention. Gil, who doesn't seem upset in the slightest. Worried, sure. But he's perpetually worried about Malcolm (a fact which constantly pricks at Malcolm's conscience, despite Gil's best efforts to assure him that only half of his grey hairs are actually Malcolm's fault).

"How?" Malcolm whispers. He's not sure if he's asking Gil or the doctor, or for that matter, what he's asking at all, but it's the only word that's floating in his head and the only word his mouth is able to form.

"Condoms aren't one hundred percent effective," Gil reasons, the words coming out slowly, like he's weighing them, testing their truth as he speaks.

Right. Of course. Malcolm knows this.

He still can't quite understand it, though.

There's a moment of silence, a moment of unwavering stillness, before Doctor McLaren clears his throat to break the unnatural quiet that's taking up the room.

"How about we get this sling on and then I can give you two a moment alone?"

Malcolm is pretty sure he nods, but he's not feeling entirely connected to his body at the moment. The ache of having his arm shifted to fit in the sling that the doctor slips around his neck is a surprisingly welcome hurt, though, something to pull him out of his head and back into the present.

By the time the sling is settled in place, cradling his arm snug against his body, the initial shock has faded. 

By the time the doctor slips from the room, Malcolm's swirling thoughts have coalesced into one burning question. 

"Gil," Malcolm says quietly, hardly even a whisper. "Do you want this?"

It's probably unfair — Gil's had only a handful of minutes to consider this, and Malcolm himself doesn't even know where _he_ stands on it — but he asks anyways, because he's never been faced with a more important question in his life.

Gil shifts to the edge of his chair to get closer to Malcolm, their knees pressing together as Gil's hand softly wraps around the back of Malcolm's neck, grounding him like it always does (and if the way Gil's face softens, if the way the worry etched on his face ebbs just a little is any sign, the contact is helping to ground Gil, as well).

"Do I want to start a family with you?" Gil asks, a small but very real smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, kid, I do. The question is, do you?"

He does. Of course he does. But he's never honestly considered the possibility of starting a family. Of being a father. It's...terrifying.

And amazing.

"Yeah." The answer seems to surprise Gil as much as it does him. "I really do."

"Yeah?" There's a light in Gil's eye's that ignites something warm and glowing and _perfect_ deep in Malcolm's chest. With nearly thirty years on the force, Gil's seen a lot of shit, things that follow him home at the end of the day and cast dark shadows in the depths of his gaze, but right now, Malcolm sees only a brilliant spark of hope.

And hopeful is a damn fine look on him.

"Let's do this. Let's start a family." Malcolm never thought those words would _ever_ pass his lips.

In a whirlwind of excitement, Malcolm finds himself on his feet, wrapped up in Gil's arms (oh-so-carefully, with Gil hyper aware of Malcolm's shoulder injury, ensuring no pressure is placed on his arm) feeling suddenly _whole_ in a way that he's entirely unaccustomed to.

He's going to be a father.

He's going to be a father with _Gil_.

And he couldn't possibly be more excited about that.

Except…

"Shit. Gil." Malcolm jerks back and looks up with wide, uneasy eyes. His hand floats down to pause just above his belly, nervous to even touch. "When Jake threw me down, I landed on my stomach. You don't think it hurt her, do you?"

There's a flash of fear in Gil's eyes, but his voice remains calm, soothing, as he says, "I'm sure it's fine. But we'll ask Doctor McLaren about it as soon as he—"

As if summoned, Doctor McLaren raps on the door and walks into the room, regarding the two men with a practiced eye as he sits down on the small stool across from them. "Are you both doing alright? I know that learning you're about to be a father can be life altering news to receive."

"Yeah," Gil says, a smile tugging at one corner of his lips at the word 'father', but it fades away as he immediately asks, "but Bright took a pretty hard landing on his stomach earlier today. Do we need to be concerned?"

Malcolm could kiss the man for coming out and asking the question that Malcolm himself was too nervous to voice. He turns from Gil to fully face Doctor McLaren, and as his hand instinctively reaches out for Gil, he's relieved to feel Gil reaching right back out for him.

"I wouldn't worry," the doctor assures them with a confidence that allows Malcolm to breathe just a little easier. "Uterine walls are thick, designed to keep your baby safe. And this early in your pregnancy, your uterus is still tucked behind your pelvic bone. Falls this early along are generally not a cause for concern, but we can certainly run some tests just to make sure everything is alright."

And so the next hour is spent making sure their baby is safe and healthy. Malcolm is poked and prodded, more samples are taken, and an ultrasound confirms that he is, indeed, pregnant, and that the baby looks absolutely fine.

Perfect, really.

For something the size of a raspberry, anyway.

When all is said and done, when the ultrasound jelly has been wiped away and they're no longer worried about their baby's safety (and even just thinking of _their baby_ is a bit of a trip for Malcolm; he knows it's going to take some getting used to, but there's a frisson of exhilaration buzzing beneath his skin that leaves him excited for the journey), when Malcolm is righting his clothes and it's just him and Gil in the exam room, preparing to leave and get back to the case, Malcolm turns to Gil only to find a contemplative air to his bearing that halts Malcolm's hands mid-knot of his tie.

"Gil?" Malcolm asks. That little voice in the back of his head — the one that sounds suspiciously like Martin — makes an appearance, whispering nonsense about Gil having second thoughts, but Malcolm forces it away with a vehemence that surprises even him.

He doesn't want that voice anywhere near his child.

Gil looks to Malcolm, his expression brightening like a summer's day. "We're gonna be daddies," he says simply, and at Malcolm's answering smile, he asks, "how would you feel about being husbands, too?"

Husband and father. Two descriptors he never thought would apply to him, but Malcolm finds he likes them both quite a lot.

"I think I like the sound of that." Malcolm's smile stretches so wide that his cheeks begin to ache. He's not sure if it's even possible to be happier than he is right now.

"Okay, then." Gil grins and leans in to kiss him with every ounce of love and joy that's coursing through his body. "You want me to take you back to your loft? We can take care of the case while you let your arm heal?"

Even as the words are leaving his mouth, Gil looks as though he knows the answer to that question. Malcolm merely arches an eyebrow in response and Gil huffs out a small laugh.

"Didn't think so," Gil smiles as he walks to the door and holds it open for Malcolm. "In that case, let's get going. I've gotten probably twenty messages from Dani and JT since we've been here. Apparently they brought Crystal in with some incriminating evidence. Something about a bloody sweatshirt."

Malcolm doesn't even recall seeing Gil check his phone, but it also doesn't surprise him that he's been keeping updated on Dani and JT's progress. He's glad the team hasn't been entirely on their own while he was getting patched up and checked over.

Malcolm's eager to get back to the precinct, to catch up on whatever Dani and JT discovered, but as he reaches the door, Gil stops him with a gentle hand on his belly and a smile on his face.

"Her?" Gil asks quietly.

"What?"

"Earlier. You said 'You don't think it hurt her, do you?'" Gil looks like he's barely able to contain his delight and it's clearly contagious, because Malcolm feels fit to burst with happiness himself.

"Huh," Malcolm says, thinking back to his earlier words and realizing Gil is right. "I guess it's just a hunch?"

"A daughter," Gil muses, staring at Malcolm's stomach with something that looks an awful lot like reverence.

He _knows_ Gil will be happy with whatever their baby turns out to be, but right now, visions of Gil sitting with a little girl perched on his knee, braiding her hair and letting her paint his fingernails, are floating through Malcolm's mind. And he can't imagine anything more perfect than that.

At the moment, though, they have a Jacosta mother, a sadist trainer, and a sad little boy to contend with.

There will be plenty of time later, Malcolm knows, to whisper their declarations of love and fight back the insecurities that rear their ugly heads. To plan their perfect wedding and laugh about absurd baby names. To curl up in bed, wrapped in each other's arms as they begin the rest of their lives together.

And Malcolm's already counting down the minutes.


End file.
